


Scars

by TheonSugden



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, M/M, Minor Injuries, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonSugden/pseuds/TheonSugden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to treat Daryl's wounds after an incident on a run, Aaron sees Daryl's scars...and his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

Aaron wasn’t sure why Daryl trusted him, especially since from what the few members of the group who spoke to him on a personal basis had told him, Daryl only trusted a handful of people, faces he’d known for months, years.

He tried not to break that trust, especially on their excursions outside of Alexandria, when their lives were in each other’s hands. 

So it was with more than a little hesitation that he held his first aid kit under one arm, the other clinging to Daryl’s beat up leather vest and tattered tank top.

“Back off,” the wild man warned, low and rumbling.

Aaron knew Daryl wouldn’t tell him twice.

He hoped Daryl wouldn’t notice the tremor in his hands.

“He got you...before I...”

Before he’d shot him. 

He still couldn’t understand how he had learned to live with himself, taking a human life. The guy had looked like one of his uncles, the one who’d always given him extra candy at Christmas. And Aaron had shot him in the head, without even flinching.

“Take care of it myself.”

Aaron wouldn’t accept that, instead holding his grip tighter. He knew Daryl could get away if he wanted to, knew he probably would in a few minutes.

“He got you in the middle of your back...you can’t reach it...even just a scratch could get an infection...”

He realized he was whining at this point. He knew Eric would tell him to leave it be, but he’d never been good at that, especially not with people who meant something to him. And Daryl, for many different reasons, did.

Daryl took advantage of his angst long enough to wrench out of his grip, shoving him away and knocking the medical kit to the ground.

“Said I’m FINE!” he shouted, wincing as he overemphasized the last word. “Nobody...nobody touches me...” he finished, mouthed more than spoken, where he thought no one could hear.

Something inside Aaron twisted, stabbed at him. He heard his mother’s voice telling him he’d failed again, that he’d never helped anyone in his life, not when it counted, that a “real man” would never want to be touched by him.

“Daryl...look at me...please...”

He knew he was talking through tears, but he couldn’t help himself. If that made him weak, fuck it. He’d make it into what he needed to survive, just like he always had.

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, fingers quick to hide his nerves at disrobing for any man but Eric. 

Daryl watched him, eyes slitted, face unreadable. Aaron felt as if he was being dissected, an animal being tracked.

He knew on some level he was the same with people, people he didn’t know, people he’d known since the first day in Alexandria. He knew Daryl enough to know his pain, to share his own.

“Daryl...my mother never left scars anyone could see, but they’re inside me. I still hear her sometimes, especially when I’m scared, when I need help.”

“So what?” Daryl spat, teeth gritted from the pain.

He stepped closer now, midday sun heavy on his back and shoulders, sweat coating the well-trimmed hair on his chest.

“I don’t know happened to you, and you don’t have to tell me, but I need you to know that you can trust me. I know why you don’t want to tell. why you  _can’t_...but I need to see where you were nicked.”

He took one more step, reaching down to pick the kit up. 

One more step, with Daryl’s vest in his fist again.

One more step...

“Fine,” Daryl whispered, shoulders slumped.

Aaron expected Daryl to undress himself, but he leaned into Aaron’s touch, giving him permission. 

Aaron tried not to let his fear show, not sure why this felt so intimate, something he’d had to do over and over since the world ended. Daryl’s eyes were still on him, studying for his reaction when he saw the crisscrossed scars of an abused child.

Aaron blinked the tears from his eyes, watching one, then two, then three slide down Daryl’s back, melting into the scars. 

He made quick work of the laceration, heart slightly less heavy now that he knew it had just been a nick.

“Toldja...” Daryl muttered.

Aaron laughed, running a finger along the bandaged wound, and, without thinking, along the pattern of scars. It was as if he was reading Daryl’s life, his soul, through the gentle touch.

He waited for Daryl to lash out, but he stayed still, barely breathing, letting his hand stay.

He wanted to tell Daryl he was sorry, or he was proud of him, or he was brave, or a million other patronizing comments that people had told him. Like the uncle who had always given him candy, and had only cared when it had no longer been worth a damn. 

Instead, he let his hand linger, trying to say what he couldn’t in words.

After a few minutes, he let his hand move away. 

Daryl turned around, eyes still never leaving him, bare chest close to bare chest, breaths heavy.

Aaron knew nothing would happen, but he still felt...something. Something he would never forgive himself for, and keep close to him always.

He thought of Eric as he put his shirt back on. How much he loved him and wanted to be with him. 

Daryl’s eyes wandered away, like a door closing.

Daryl picked up his crossbow from the grass before walking back to the bike.

Aaron climbed on the back, arms around Daryl’s waist as always, albeit a little more haltingly this time.

“I won’t tell...” he began, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“I know,” Daryl said, sure, trusting, even now, more than ever now.

“Nice tits,” he pushed out of the side of the mouth, Aaron chuckling in spite of himself as they drove back home.


End file.
